


stay gold: assorted timestamps

by storyskein



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Season/Series 01, Timestamp, the week between 1.3 and 1.4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 20:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9565094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyskein/pseuds/storyskein
Summary: In rewatching the show, I caught some feels at different points of canon. I'll be going through those when I can, posting some timestamps and drabbles, especially for s1 and 2 when I wasn't writing fic yet.Title from "Stay Gold" by First Aid Kit





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Meg and Natalie, and their brilliant podcast Discussapalooza.

Rain patters on the top of the tent as Clarke stares, numb, at the empty pallet in front of her. It’s been four days since someone killed Wells, and the very presence of his absence feels like a knife in her gut. Rivulets of dried salt are cracked on her face, but she can’t bring herself to go to the wash bin. 

Wells is dead. Clarke knows it’s her fault. Somehow it just is. She can’t save any of them, this knowledge is deep in her bones, even if they didn’t die immediately this place is a death sentence--and her best friend already one of the number. 

The camp is quiet, most hiding from the rain in their tents. But all day there has been one noise--well, many noises, but one person making them. Bellamy is building the wall that Wells started around camp. Clarke hears the knock of a mallet on wood, rhythmic for a bit, broken up by cursing, then starting up again. 

She doesn’t know what propels her to get up, to move out of her tent and into the rain-mist-fog. The cool, wet air is bracing, her lungs fill and she’s reminded how alive she is, how alive the Earth is. Moss clings to trees, the forest layer is soft under her boots, raindrops drip from dark green fir needles. It smells so good, too--resinous and fresh. So Clarke takes a moment, just one, like Wells would want her to do--and just--appreciates it. 

And that feels like his hand is on her shoulder, like his laugh threads through her memory. 

Then the pounding starts again and it startles her out of her reverie. Clarke looks up to see Bellamy across the camp, working on Wells' wall--Bellamy’s wall now, she guesses. It feels weird to both distrust Bellamy but also see him taking up Well’s task, to feel that something is shifting between them. Power, leadership, friendship, reliance--something happened when she killed Atom. Something shifted. It makes her...curious. 

Bellamy glances at her as she approaches, and there’s a flash of something in his eyes. Sympathy? Recognition? She knows--everyone knows--what happened to his mother. But it goes both ways on the Ark. Everyone also knows what happened to her dad. 

“Do you need help?” Clarke’s voice is rough. She hasn’t said much in days, and she’s sure the entire camp heard her cries on the first night. So she feels exposed under his gaze, which is both unsure, challenging, and kind. 

He gives her a curt nod and hands her a length of cable. “Help me tie the junctures. I can’t do it by myself.” 

“Okay.” Clarke wipes her sleeve across her face, wiping away both the rain and the salt, and moves to his side to work.


End file.
